The Prodigal
by Calixte
Summary: Angelus shows William around town. But William has other plans. WIP, pre-series.
1. Twilight

When he looks at him, he wants to die.  
  
He knew that he was writing Darla, who again disappeared without a word, though she needn't had said anything at all; Angelus knew always where she was, and knew even better that she was more than capable of taking care of herself.  
  
Drusilla was another story. She would wander off, leave a trail of choir- boys and sailors and still no one would know where she had gone off.  
  
You are my lovely one, Angelus would say, sliding his hand inside the younger one's trousers before he knocked his head in and buried himself inside. As far as being lovers went, Zeus and Ganymede they were not.  
  
Angelus only wrote at daylight, with the black curtains closed over great Venetian windows, and the familiar scent of burning oil and wax, coupled with the potent smells of blood and semen, made this scene only more indelible in William's mind. And William was just getting to know how bloody awful it was to have enhanced senses only because the common smell of blood got him hard and thinking about him, over by the window, writing with that awful hand of his.  
  
He was certainly evil, or more evil-minded than the rest. How unfortunate it was for him that Angelus hardly slept, that he wrote to his correspondences and handled business matters when the sun was up and toyed and tortured him when the sun was down. He hadn't a minute to himself, and he was sure Angelus purposely devised it this way because he was, after all, evil.  
  
Angelus looked up from his letter with a satisfied grin. Amazing to think that the recipient of that letter would understand its contents, considering that only a year before "grandmother" still had the mind of an illiterate whore, and William had to patiently teach her to read in the small periods allotted to them between picnics and eviscerations. Because this is what Angelus had commanded.  
  
Sundown on a Sunday. When Angelus had finished dressing, and slicked oil into that awful peasant's mane, William knew it was time to go.  
  
On the street they looked like two, ordinary gentlemen walking without a care in the world. William's blond hair looked black and his face more angular in the shadows. Angelus had given him some old tweeds that had an almost indiscernible bloodstain on the inside collar. He had stripped it off a skinny, young medical student on his way to St Jude. How fitting it seemed that he was walking in that medical student's clothing, almost as if William himself had been revived and was once again moving along the streets as he was before, instead of inwardly rotting as a boyishly-faced slavecock.  
  
When they walked past St Jude Hospital as they did almost every night William thought of his mother. This was the only time he thought of his mother because thinking about her at any other time when he was able to think- whether it was particularly slow-moving mouthfuck with Angelus or when the sweet-tasting blood of an Irishman swarmed around in his belly - only defiled his memory of her. And was, frankly, in very bad taste.  
  
Mary was in her usual spot at the Boar's Inn. Her cheeks were more flushed than usual and her dress - a dark blue color - was tailored with a high neck so it could easily conceal the markings beneath. It was obvious to the outside world what she was but William knew that Angelus could not look at her - the dark hair, the little cross that hung around her neck - and not think a little of how, through Mary, he was secretly defiling God. Which he thought was silly, since God didn't exist. At least, not to creatures like them.  
  
"Oh, Master!" She says, in a Kentish drawl that William, ten years ago, would have thought to be completely lacking in any charm. "I'm so very out of sorts today! I woke this morning with a terrible headache but did not know whether you would come to see me."  
  
Angelus takes a long sip of the stout that was brought over and says with a complete lack of interest: "You don't look well."  
  
"What have you to do with me tonight? I hope nothing nasty like you did the other night, Master. Abbess said it wouldn't do if every frock 'came to nightly rags - "  
  
"Take it off," says Angelus, curtly, looking everywhere but at Mary. "Didn't I say to keep it away from me, you stupid cunt? Go on, give it to William."  
  
William, who had been sitting next to Mary and imagining the ungodly things he would to do her given a chance alone, jerked up from his seat, already half-erect and hungry, to feel the burning metal of the little cross that once hung around Mary's neck in the palm of his hand.  
  
"Clutch it tightly, William-boy." Angelus rose from his seat and extended his arm out toward Mary, who enthusiastically wrapped herself him, smiling crookedly. "We wouldn't want Mary here to lose what she so honestly worked for."  
  
Before being turned, when William had been so comfortably in his mother's house living their pseudo-genteel lives, he had always looked at butter as being an expensive, and rather superfluous, commodity. Yet - when he saw Angelus slather generous amounts of it on his cock and fingers, which dug their way inside of Mary's buttocks - he knew how unimaginative he'd been but couldn't help to think that the lot of it was wasted on what was perfectly meant to be spread on his morning toast. Though none of that mattered, for sure: he never ate human food now. But how was it possible that thinking of eating human food had made him hungrier than he already was?  
  
Mary had a little lamp on the corner of a small table in her bedchamber, near to where Angelus was fucking her and feeding off the same place on neck where he had fed off the other night: it was all a matter of reopening the wounds. The grunting feral noises - both hers and his - were not, by any means, loud but rather seemed that way because of their intense growling. Angelus looked to William, who was half-reclined on a rickety old chair, with his yellow eyes, which demanded his complete surrender, and William could do nothing but capitulate to his unspoken demands.  
  
He stood up and chucked off his clothing. Angelus remained as he was, in Mary's ass, but was pumping less frantically and concentrating more on what little Will was about to do. Who was not so little. And William knew how much Angelus did like receiving since it had been so difficult in the beginning of all this to distinguish what was fact or merely affectation. 


	2. Dusk

Angelus, spent and satiated, fell to the side of the bed in exquisite agony. The fuck he had just given, and just received, drunk on Mary's blood which dripped off his fangs like warm honey, made his eyelids feel heavy - and was enough to (temporarily) lull him to sleep. William was aware of the potent soporific effects that resulted from simultaneously fucking and feeding, and felt secure enough to kneel beside Angelus, whose demon-face had been slowly changing back to his mortal one, and licked the sides of his mouth, where the blood had been collecting before it silently started to trickle to the floor.  
  
He heard the slow beating of a heart, and then he ceased to hear anything at all, so he assumed that Mary was probably dead. Outside a door creaked open and he heard footsteps. Seeing that Angelus was still sleeping, he slowly opened the door to see who it was. Outside, framed by the dull light emanating from her room, was a young girl, wearing a flimsy nightgown with long sleeves. She still had her stockings on and her hair fell down in messy red curls down her shoulders. She smelled of other men, but her smell was particularly ripe since he could also smell the beginning of her menses, and he was so very, very famished. Angelus was all for playing with his food but never sharing it, and when the red-headed phoenix lifted up her shirt to expose herself, he quickly forgot all about Mary's honeyblood and thoughts of expensive buttered toast.  
  
Her room was much smaller than Mary's: the bed was small, the curtains in need of dusting. She licked her lips and got naked, and William pulled out the five thickers he nicked from Angelus's coat-pocket.  
  
"None of that." She waved her arm as to dismiss his payment. William still had his trousers on but his shirt was on the floor next to Mary's bed, and the red-headed phoenix took advantage of this and knelt before him and began to twist his nipples with her fingers while nuzzling her face near his cockstand. "Want something else, sir. Something only you can give me." She looked up at him, and for a half-second she had a mad glint in her eye that was wholly Drusilla-like.  
  
He wanted to drink her. Finish her off. But there was something so curious and odd about this whole situation that his hunger pangs had by now become a slight annoyance rather than bloodlust in need of resolution.  
  
"What is it you want?"  
  
"Isn't it quite plain? But first -" she slipped his cock out from his trousers -"let us put Nebuchadnezzar out to grass."  
  
He quickly bent the phoenix over the bed and hiked up her gown, but her look of discomfort was so alarming (and out of nowhere he began to think of his mother being in the same room with him), that he naturally flipped her over onto her back and was shocked to see that her cunt had so much hair on it. He'd always thought of female genitalia as being a perfectly smoothed V of holiness, and was befuddled that it was just as messy and smelly as his own organ. But before he entered her she had exposed the alabaster skin of her neck, which he knew to be a sign of her desire for him to take her, though he wasn't quite sure if she was asking to be turned or pleading for death. But before he bent down to drink from her he heard Angelus feet tap on the floor, and when William turned around he saw him standing at the doorway with a wicked smile, the wrinkles around his mouth slightly hinting at what sort of debaucheries he had in mind.  
  
But as quickly as Angelus came through the door his mood turned quickly sour, and his brow furrowed petulantly as he said: "On your knees, William. Bring your ladybird here."  
  
Without speaking, the phoenix approached Angelus and exposed her slim neck. William fumbled around with Angelus's trouser buttons, his fingers quaking with rage, wanting so much to kill him, wanting so much to fuck everyone, turn anyone, beat the bloody bastard with his fists until he surrendered what was his. Sadly, William knew all too well that he would do nothing. Simply, because he was nothing. Nothing to Drusilla and certainly nothing to this red-headed whore. As he deep-throated Angelus he heard him rip through the phoenix's throat and then, later, slash his own wrists to complete what was already in motion. By the time Angelus came in his mouth the phoenix had already been lying stiff in a pool of blood on the floor. To be found and later buried in a mass grave later in the week, only to rise and realize that it was all for naught and that becoming Undead was just as incredibly stupid as being Dead. William was admittedly curious at first: what did she want from him? Was it death or immortality? But when he saw Angelus brush off his clothing and head toward the door he thought it best to do as Angelus did: take what you want and fuck all the rest because they no longer had any business in being rational creatures. 


	3. Night, part I

Outside the night-air was cold, and a light fog descended upon them. The world moved along as it did before, despite the bloody carnage that had occurred only moments before in an obscure little house tucked away in a street pocket near the Thames. For what were they - men in their wool coats and dark hats, respectable women in layers of petticoats and warm gloves - going to do on the account of two dead whores? But Angelus had been careless in the past, as he was now, and the public's fascination with degutted prostitutes in pre-Jack the Ripper days kept much of this carelessness out of any kind of cumbersome scrutiny. Blood could have flowed through the cobbled streets of the West End and as long as it didn't soil the hems of any lacy garments then no one would pay any mind.  
  
Rested but restless, Angelus waved down a cab. More fun was to be had, and William stepped along with him, in fearful alacrity. The night was theirs, and theirs to defile.  
  
They crossed over the silvery Thames on a narrow bridge, the rooftops bright against the full moon, and the patrons of the Kensington Opera House, having just witnessed the patricide of "Don Giovanni," have been filing out onto the streets talking excitedly amongst themselves. Ladies waving their fans to cool their faces and necks despite the chilly night, some of them taking in long breaths and waving scented handkerchiefs near their turned-up, delicate noses. It was in an alley around the corner they stood there and waited, but it was Angelus who decided when it was time to pounce, if it came to that.  
  
Angelus slipped his arm around his waist, looked William in the eyes, which were similar to Darla's, though his eyes hinted at disparity, and seemed bottomless for want of hope, though Angelus had none to give. He was never one to be so kind.  
  
"You know that they would do to lads in my day if they were ever caught doing what we do?"  
  
William didn't think answering would help him stop Angelus from saying what he was about to say.  
  
"I'm not talking about what judges would do, or anything to do with locking you up in stinkin' gaols, or public hanging. Not anything like that. I'm talking about what men'll do. Common men. Your neighbors. Know what I speak of, boy?"  
  
William looks at him bewildered, a look he uses constantly because Angelus could interpret it in any way he likes.  
  
Angelus then pulls out a silver cigarette case with an anagrammed "A" decorated in spiky wreaths. Inside it held five hand-rolled fags, as thin as toothpicks. He lights one, then continues:  
  
"They strip you. Naked. Out on the street, in the pub, doesn't matter where they'll get you 'cause they will." He unbuttons William shirt so part of his chest is exposed. "Then they'll come at you - stick'in! - with hot pokers, lash you with them, until they welt you and leave you half-crippled and dead to the world."  
  
"Did they do that to you?"  
  
Angelus grabs his chin and forces him to look up at him - how superior he feels that he's much taller than this skinny boy! - and breathes smoke into his mouth and kissed him gently, which was always surprising when it happened even though it actually occurred often. Surprising because it emulated tenderness though it was never quite real enough to completely give oneself over to. The façade crumbles quickly when Angelus burns him by digging into his chest with his lit cigarette butt making sure to make it as impressive as the cross-shaped scar that was beginning to form on William's left palm.  
  
Angelus stopped kissing him. Looked at him squarely, and says plainly:  
  
"Liked to be fucked then by men with their big cocks, or better yet, sucked. But they never got me. Father -" and this was pronounced, as if by accident, "fayther" - was too important then. As far as I knew, no one could stick it to me and not get what's comin' to them."  
  
He rubs his thumb over the cigarette mark. William gasps, dares to place his hand on master's thigh, which master lets him keep. He pretends not to take notice. Angelus was feeling strangely benevolent tonight.  
  
A faint coughing sound near the entrance of the Opera House makes them turn their heads toward that direction. A lovely brunette with a curvy figure and her companion - (her husband?) a tall, lanky man with a fashionably curly moustache - were walking toward their carriage arm-in-arm excitedly talking about the many loves of Don Giovanni. More accurately, the woman was making conversation while the husband gave off an air of indifferent stupidity, curling the tip of his moustache with his fingers while he licked his lips in anticipation of a more interesting activity - cards, or even whores, perhaps - to indulge in later on this night.  
  
As the woman walked on and chattered away she ignored the street urchins begging for money, the fruit-sellers walking about in desperation, the rapacious thieves lurking in the shadows. Her white dress, made of the finest satin, tailored to show off her endowments and to emphasize her pretty neck made her greatly desirable to many but unapproachable to most. William knew the kind: the ones who were seemingly affable at first, who smiled as if they were charmed or taken in by your presence but were secretly shallow as a puddle on Baker Street, and respectably whored their way out of a shabby genteel existence to a nobler one of which was a bored, achromatic housewife.  
  
"That's Cecily Addams," William gawks, annoyed that he's still enraptured by her mere presence.  
  
"Who is she?" "I knew her when I was alive. She spurned me, then Drusilla found me."  
  
"Perhaps because she knew you liked to be buggered by boys."  
  
"Was buggered by no one while I was alive. You've solely had the honor of fucking my virginal cadaver, quite honestly." Angelus smirks at this, and lights another cigarette.  
  
"You're still in love with her."  
  
"I'm not."  
  
"Let's see if you still are," and Angelus starts to walk toward Cecily's carriage. Curious and hungry, but terrified, William follows. If it was a game he wanted then, by all means, William was ready for it. On the way Angelus had dropped his cigarette on the ground and William has made sure to snuff it out with a quick step of his boot. 


End file.
